Youth in Revolt: The Journals of Nick Twisp

by C. D. Payne

  I have memorized the first two lines of “The Rime of the Ancient Mariner.” Only 728 to go. Vijay is assisting me by making obscene alterations in each line. He claims once you learn the dirty version, it’s a snap to remember the original. Seems logical to me. Next time, though, I’m telling Mr. Preston I need time off for something vague like spiritual growth.

  10:15 A.M. Our first crisis. The sun came out in Novato and Fuzzy’s eyes locked into reflexive squint. We barely made it off the freeway alive. He forgot his sunglasses, so we had to stop at Kmart to buy him a pair. While we were there, we picked up two dozen donuts (only eight apiece, but we’re husbanding our funds). Fuzzy can see OK now, but he says the cheap lenses make it seem like he’s piloting a low-flying airplane. His entire body is extra-sensitive to light. Maybe that’s why he has all that fur.

  1:30 P.M. Fuzzy made a wrong turn in San Francisco, and before we knew it we were heading east on the Bay Bridge. So I said hell, let’s go to Oakland and see my old house. To my surprise, my front door key still fit. I figured Mom would have had all the locks changed by now. The place was deserted, of course, since Mom was up in Reno with Lance ruining her life.

  Fuzzy and Vijay both agreed the in-the-wall-Chevy Nova was radical in the extreme. Upstairs, we found much alarming evidence of Lance’s loathsome presence, including six neatly pressed, size 48-long Oakland police uniforms hanging in my closet. Borrowing Mom’s eyebrow trimmers, I snipped every third stitch along the rear seam in all his trousers. Next time he bends over to club a defenseless crack pusher, r-r-rippppp! I also borrowed some nail polish and painted a bull’s-eye directly over the heart on his bulletproof vest.

  Fuzzy and Vijay were inspecting my sister Joanie’s old room, now transformed into a frilly pink nursery-in-waiting. “What’s with all the baby stuff?” asked Fuzzy.

  “My mom’s expecting,” I confessed.

  “God, that’s gross,” replied Fuzzy. “Isn’t she a little old to be cranking them out?”

  “Freak of nature, I guess,” I said. “I just hope the kid isn’t born with two heads. The father was a real moron.”

  “Is it the fellow she’s marrying?” asked Vijay.

  “Nah. Another moron. This one croaked from a heart attack.”

  “Boy,” exclaimed Fuzzy, “the kid’s not even born yet and he’s already half an orphan.”

  “In my family that can be a decided advantage,” I replied.

  Before we left, I went into Mom’s bedroom and scrawled in scarlet lipstick on her dresser mirror: “YOU’LL BE SORRY!!!”

  “Will your mother know who wrote it?” asked Vijay.

  “Nah,” I replied, “I disguised my handwriting. With any luck she’ll think it’s a message from some divine Dear Abby.”

  3:30 PM. As we reached the Santa Cruz city limits, a cold gray rain started falling. I hope this is not an omen. I have memorized the first six salacious lines of you know what.

  We just filled up the gas tank: $24.53. I didn’t know you could put that much gasoline into a Falcon. I wonder if I’m too young for those “sell your blood for subsistence money” places.

  6:15 P.M. I just had an emotional reunion with My One and Only Love. My hands are still shaking. I feel immensely, exultantly alive. Sheeni was delighted, perhaps even thrilled to see me. We luxuriated in a passionate embrace—indifferent to the stares of Vijay, Fuzzy, a half dozen leering students, and an indignant dorm matron. In her excitement, Sheeni even let out a few words of English. This provoked even more expostulations of outrage from the matron. We were forced to unclinch, but I anticipate an imminent resumption of intimacies.

  I am writing this in the back seat of Fuzzy’s car, parked just off the posh campus of École des Arts et Littératures. We are waiting for Sheeni and Taggarty to finish dressing and come down to join us. The plan is for all of us to go out to dinner and then walk along the boardwalk (if the rain lets up). They have promised to bring along a date for Fuzzy. (Vijay has laid dibs on Sheeni’s sultry roommate.) I only pray they are also bringing along some money.

  10:30 P.M. We are back in our parking spot, waiting for Sheeni to come out to tell us the coast is clear. Can only four hours have transpired? It seems like days. Sheeni has courageously agreed to sneak us into her and Taggarty’s room to spend the night. This is a major violation of the school’s police-state dorm rules. It will be Sheeni’s and my first night together. I am hoping the presence of three other people does not limit excessively our opportunities for passionate lovemaking.

  Fuzzy was thankful he had retrieved his letter jacket. His date turned out to be a strapping giantess named Heather, star forward of the girls’ basketball team. She was dressed for combat in a short skirt that showed off her sinewy leg muscles. Up-court was a tight red sweater encasing two near-regulation-size NBA game balls. To say Fuzzy was soon lost in the tall Heather would be an understatement. She, in turn, took an immediate shine to her escort after he announced he was presently leading the Redwood Empire Athletic League in pass reception yardage.

  Vijay had a more difficult time. The alluring Taggarty (short dark hair, intense green eyes, Manhattan sophistication cloaked in fragile ripeness) seemed more intent on demonstrating that she possessed the largest forebrain in the group than succumbing to his exotic, subcontinental, right-wing charm. In her gratingly shrill, overcultivated voice, she trotted out more scholarly allusions than an entire month of my letters to Sheeni. It’s a wonder she finds any time for sexual conquests what with all the fact-cramming she must do.

  To his credit, Vijay more than held his own, especially after he commenced a long, florid recitation of Urdu poetry. Taggarty tried to steer the conversation toward a historical analysis of the Ramayana (she must have read the trot on that one), but desisted abruptly when Vijay tripped her up in a glaring factual error. Still, Taggarty is such an intellectual heavyweight she makes everyone except the supremely formidable Sheeni nervous about expressing an opinion. I pity her future fact-riddled husband.

  Sheeni is more alarmingly mature and beautiful than ever. She wore a soft, wine-red velvet dress that made her long hair glow like aged bronze. For me, our moments together pass in a fog of exquisite anguish. I want to clutch her to me, lest she pass beyond my humble orbit like some brilliant comet streaking across the heavens. These sentiments, as you might expect, often render normal speech difficult. Plus, François is forever reminding me not to look so lovesick. He says it’s bad for our image.

  Everyone exclaimed over Fuzzy’s rad ’60s wheels, so he had to drive like a maniac to the restaurant. (A fancy one, specializing in expensive Mediterranean peasant food. At these prices, no wonder the peasants are impoverished.) Naturally it was Taggarty’s choice.

  From 8:35 to 10:05 the check lay untouched on the table like an unexploded bomb, its menacing presence delaying our departure until it was too late to continue on to the boardwalk. Finally François coughed nonchalantly and turned it over. The numbers blew up in his face: $167.23.

  Fearing the worst, the waiter had added in a generous 15 percent gratuity. The three men huddled and, after rifling all of our pockets (Fuzzy, to his surprise, found three crumpled twenties and a used condom in his varsity jacket), came up with $135.74. I was forced to write a personal IOU to our companions for the balance. They grumbled but coughed up the cash. Two hundred miles from home and we’re now totally broke. Thank God we had the foresight to fill up the gas tank.

  Fuzzy drove back to the dorm at 20 mph to conserve fuel. Perhaps he also wanted to prolong his enforced proximity to his nubile jockette. This time I made Vijay sit in the front with them so I could sit next to Sheeni in the back. I held her warm hand and tried, in between interruptions (in French) from the jealous Taggarty, to converse privately with My Love.

  “So, Sheeni, how do you like Santa Cruz? Isn’t it excessively damp being this close to the ocean?”

  “Not at all, Nickie. I’m liking it more and more. The experience has been so broadening. My years in provincial Uki
ah now seem like a fast-retreating nightmare. Of course, I do miss you and Albert. How is my darling dog?”

  “A bit sluggish these days, I fear,” I replied. “He pines for you dreadfully, you know.”

  “I’m so selfish,” she sighed. “Always thinking of my own happiness first. I promise to make it up to you both when we’re all reunited in Paris. Did I tell you Taggarty and I have an opportunity to study there next summer? Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”

  “Next summer!” I exclaimed. “But that was our time to be together in Ukiah.”

  “I know, Nickie, but this is too extraordinary an opportunity to pass up. I’ve never been abroad you know. Why don’t you come and visit us there? We could go to all the museums and you could work on your French conversational skills.”

  “And how am I supposed to finance this excursion?” I demanded.

  “With the savings from your job, silly,” she answered. “You must begin to economize, Nickie.”

  With some effort of will I let that point drop. “Is Trent going to be studying in Paris also?”

  “I believe he’s submitted his application,” she replied. “But he’s trying to find out if they have facilities on the Seine for windsurfing. He’s become quite tiresomely fixated on that sport. His poetry is suffering.”

  “Isn’t the Seine polluted?” I asked, entertaining a rapturous vision of a lapsed poet felled by hepatitis.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” Sheeni answered wistfully. “It looks so poignantly blue in the photographs.”

  11:30 P.M. (written by flashlight). We are all chastely bedded down for the night (at least some of us are). Taggarty, feigning severe menstrual cramps, distracted the matron while Vijay, Fuzzy, and I—carrying our grips and sleeping bags—sneaked in through the side door. Sheeni and Heather led us on tiptoes up to the third floor. Despite extreme stealth, our presence became known instantly among the occupants of the floor, exciting much giggling in French and running about in near-undress. Why, do you suppose, confining large numbers of teenage girls in one place produces such aberrant behavior? And why is it always the plain ones who take off most of their clothes?

  Sheeni and Taggarty share a cement-block cubicle just big enough for a bunk bed, two small desks, one army surplus dresser, and a diminutive overstuffed armchair. As the more intelligent and beautiful, Sheeni claimed the bottom bunk. On the wall above her desk she has taped her Jean-Paul Belmondo Breathless poster and a photo of Albert and me. Taggarty’s wall displays several dozen bus station photo machine mug shots of sullen-looking youths, all of whom, presumably, have known her intimately. Written on each photo was a letter from A to F. Taggarty is a hard grader. Most of the guys, I noticed, earned a C-or below.

  “There’s your competition,” I whispered to Vijay.

  “A distinguished group I would be happy to join,” he whispered back.

  To relieve the overcrowding, Heather suggested Fuzzy come sleep in her room.

  “Your roommate won’t mind?” he asked, surprised.

  “Oh, Darlene went home for the weekend,” Heather replied nonchalantly.

  Fuzzy gulped. Vijay and I exchanged glances. “That sounds fine,” Fuzzy said, picking up his grip. “Well, see you guys in the morning.”

  Ten minutes later, as we were unrolling our sleeping bags on the floor, we heard a woman’s scream through the wall.

  “Sounds like your pal plays rough,” observed Taggarty.

  “We are all of us quite hot-blooded,” confirmed Vijay.

  We got even more hot-blooded a few minutes later when Taggarty, ostensibly searching for her misplaced nightie, revealed her contempt for bourgeois modesty by walking about with her bra off. She gets a B+ for size, but I would have to subtract points for the droop and nipple hairs. Vijay, though, clearly was awarding her an A. Thankfully, at that moment my discreet girlfriend was in the closet changing into her nightgown (undiaphanous as usual). So Vijay and François felt free to stare brazenly. Taggarty didn’t seem to mind.

  Since the bathroom was down the hall, Taggarty (now clothed provocatively in pale green babydolls) stood guard outside the door as Vijay and I leaned over the grungy sinks and brushed our pearlies.

  “I am in a state of sexual frenzy,” he confessed.

  “Welcome to the club,” I said.

  “What is your plan?” he asked.

  “We drape a blanket over the lower bunk for Sheeni and me. You tackle Taggarty on the top bunk.”

  “Do you have any condoms?”

  “Let’s see. I slipped two to Fuzzy. So I’ve still got eight in my pack.”

  “That should do,” said Vijay, gargling. He looked stricken. “What if they don’t go for it?”

  “They’ll go for it,” I said. “You can cut the sexual tension in that room with a knife.”

  Sheeni didn’t go for it. She whispered, “Don’t be silly, darling. Not with others in the room,” gave me a peck on the cheek, and slipped—alone—into her narrow bed.

  Taggarty climbed laboriously up to her bunk in the sky, flashing her guests a stimulating eyeful in the process. “Good night, boys,” she cooed. “Do you need the light on to take off your clothes?”

  “No,” I said, flipping off the overhead light. “We can find our zippers in the dark.”

  Gloomily, we stripped down to our underwear and crawled into the sleeping bags. The concrete floor was cold and hard.

  “This is most disconcerting,” whispered Vijay. “I shall not sleep a wink. Do you think I dare sneak up to Taggarty’s after everyone’s asleep?”

  “It’s worth a try,” I whispered. “I don’t imagine she’d object.”

  Too tired to write any more, and Vijay keeps looking over and scowling impatiently at me. I wish I hadn’t nervously sipped all that water at the restaurant. I have to pee again already.

  SUNDAY, October 14 — 6:45 A.M. A disastrous night! We are on the road back to Ukiah. Vijay and Fuzzy are blaming me, but I don’t see what they have to complain about. Fuzzy, thanks to some skillful ball handling by Heather, is now a certified nonvirgin. Vijay is about 65% certain he qualifies as one too. I should be so lucky.

  The difficulties started when I got up to go to the bathroom. Yes, I was careful and made sure no one was in the hallway or rest room before I ventured forth. After pissing about three gallons, I suddenly developed a killer T.E. Maybe it was from being alone in a girls’ bathroom with the exotic ambience and gleaming sanitary napkin dispenser. Anyway, I decided to take a nice hot shower and deal with the T.E. while I was at it. This I did, and as I was toweling off (with a towel I found labeled “Darlene’s, Touch It and Die!”), I heard the outside door open. Feeling somewhat exposed, I slipped on my underpants, wrapped the towel around me, and tried to sneak out.

  “Who are you?” asked a thin girl with short platinum hair and six earrings per lobe, glancing up from the sink into which she was vomiting.

  I paused. “I’m Nick, a friend of Sheeni’s. Sorry to disturb you.”

  “Wait! Don’t go!” she gasped, in between heaves.

  “Are you OK? Should I go get some help?” I asked, alarmed.

  “I’m OK,” she said, rinsing out her mouth from the tap. “It was just something I ate. Uh, could I borrow your towel for a second.”

  Reluctantly, I handed over the damp towel. She wiped her mouth and looked me up and down with some curiosity. “So, what—are you Sheeni’s boyfriend or something?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  “You’re staying the night? Where’s Taggarty?”

  “Uh, she’s …she’s sleeping. A friend and I are just, just camping on the floor.”

  “I get it. A slumber party. Any more boys on the floor I should know about?”

  “Well, there’s my friend Fuzzy in Heather’s room.”

  “Fuzzy. That’s a cute name. My name’s Bernice, by the way, not that you asked. Not that anyone does.”

  “Nice to meet you, Bernice,” I added hastily. “I just feel a little, uh, uncomfortable stan
ding here in my underwear.”

  “What for? You have an OK body.”

  “Thanks,” I said. François added, “You do too.”

  “I’m totally gross,” she replied with a sneer. “So, you really like Sheeni, huh?”

  “Yes, don’t you?”

  “Personally, I hate her guts.”

  “Why?” I asked, shocked.

  “I have my reasons.” She read my mind. “Don’t worry, I won’t snitch on you. Well, pardon me, Nick. I feel like throwing up some more now.”